I'm my mother's only child, my father's third (and final since he died while my mother was pregnant). I never thought some amazing things would happen as of late when it came to those facts. Crazy things. All at once things.
About a month or so ago, I came back into contact with my eldest brother. I have two older brothers, but only one of them is on Facebook. Facebook, that social media site that connects people, and also allows the common folk to become stalkers in their spare time. Facebook, the place that allows us immediate gratification of our nosy curiosities. Facebook, the thing that makes us insinuate friendships long forgotten.
Yeah, that Facebook.
My brother, Tony, was right there. His profile donned a different surname than my own, but my father's side of the family suspected his mother changed it when she cut off all contact between my brothers and the family (for no reason whatsoever). Right there in front of my face, without me even knowing it, was my brother after 20ish years. We had multiple people in common (including my own cousin). So, I sent him a message, letting him know that I thought I was his sister. My hands shook as I typed, my mind raced.
Maybe he wouldn't care. Maybe their mother filled their heads with garbage about our family not caring about them. We did. We searched for them always and loved them dearly even though we hadn't seen them in such a long time. I couldn't take rejection when it comes to that. When it comes based on lies.
He messaged me back. Asking how people were and asking to see more pictures of our father. The one link I thought I'd have to any sort of memories of my father because he was 4 or 5 when my Dad died...and he remembers nothing. Not even his face. Two steps forward, one step back. That's how all contact has been so far. I noticed he kept referring to my grandmother by her first name instead of by "Mom-Mom", but he told me he has a 9-year-old son. I'm an aunt. See about the steps? He gave me his brother's number and we've been conversing, but it's half-assed and lazy because we're both busy. However, it's going VERY well.
And now for the bad news.
My mother has been sick off and on the past week or so. We thought she would get better, but she wasn't. When she fell in the bathroom, and I couldn't pick her up and her legs were far too weak to support her weight, I realized something was very wrong.
We learned the hard way that she's diabetic. Her sugars were all the way up to almost 600 when the normal levels are 70-140 (which are both pushing limits). Her sodium and potassium levels were far too low. She was slurring and unable to stay awake, constantly thirsty. She was wetting herself and I didn't even know about it. I still blame myself for her getting so bad. If I had just taken her sooner to the hospital...maybe things would be different.
They say she's going to be in hospital for a while, which isn't easy to hear. I want to be able to fix it. I want to be able to give her a pill and bring her back home, but I can't.
While at work today (yes, I tried to go...it didn't end well), and there was a small boy who became separated from his mother. His name was Iyaya (or something of the like) and he was three years old. His mother was with her friends shopping and he had run off because he "only needed toothbrushes". His words, not mine. We walked around for a bit because he was alone and afraid. I lifted him into my arms and he clung to me for dear life. We continued to search for the woman, finally running into her after some time. Turns out Iyaya isn't very well behaved. He was completely fine with me, as kids usually are.
I realize now that it was a message from whatever is high atop the thing. It was a message that even though I'm without my mother for the moment, she's going to come back home. She'll find me, just like Iyaya's mother found him. However, it's happening to help me discover my own worth. That I can do this on my own. That I can find this inner strength that I know exists, but is so deeply burred by pain and loss that I'm afraid to release her. Not the scrapper that I used to need when I lived in the ghetto, but the one that I hid when my grandmother lived with us so long ago.
The nights are still really hard though. My mother and I may have had our differences, but knowing she was in the next room was a comfort. It's just us. No siblings. No other parent or step-parent. I just need to get my shit together.
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